


Summer Holiday

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While staying in a country cottage for their summer holiday, Moriarty wakes up to see Moran washing himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Holiday

Moriarty awakens to a space in the bed beside him and the sound of splashing water. Opening his eyes, he twists around to peer down to the foot of the bed, being presented with the sight of Moran from behind, entirely naked, his freckled skin glistening with moisture. The early morning sunlight coming in through the gap in the curtains where they do not quite meet lights him up beautifully, further emphasising his lean but muscular form.

Catching sight of the movement behind him in the old speckled cheval mirror propped against the wall, Moran pauses and glances back over his shoulder at the professor. “I didn't mean to wake you.” The sponge he clasps in his hand drips water into the chipped enamel basin at his feet and onto the old towel spread out on the floor beneath him to protect the floorboards from splashes. In their more usual abode he would likely be washing himself in the bathroom but here in their summer retreat the facilities are far more basic.

Still, Moriarty cannot help but wonder if it was still entirely necessary for the colonel to choose to wash himself in here; if there was not some other motive than the lack of a bathroom. He watches a bead of water trickling down Moran's back, down into the cleft between his buttocks. “I had to awaken sooner or later,” he points out.

Moran turns his head back but continues to watch Moriarty in the mirror, noticing the direction of the professor's focus as he bends to dip the sponge in the basin. “Admirin' the view?” he enquires with a grin, straightening up, squeezing excess water from the sponge before wiping it over his chest.

“It is most captivating,” Moriarty says, a small smile crossing his face as he lifts his gaze to meet Moran's in the reflection in the mirror.

“Didn't think that was your field of interest.”

“Simply because I am not provoked into a state of desperate lust by the sight of your posterior, this does not mean I cannot appreciate your form,” Moriarty remarks, sitting up.

“And a very fine form it is,” Moran says, still grinning.

“Indeed.” Moriarty slides from the bed and pads across the floor to stand behind Moran. He rests his chin upon Moran's shoulder, his hands against Moran's hips.

The colonel shifts position, leaning ever so slightly back into Moriarty's hold, before he stills. He is aware of the professor's continued scrutiny of his naked body, a look that seems oddly detached when compared to the looks given to Moran by many of his past conquests, but that is pleased by what he sees nonetheless.

Moran seems relaxed still, as yet showing none of the more obvious signs of sexual arousal, no more than a slight flush to his skin perhaps, but Moriarty is aware of the subtle shift to his demeanour; the alert tension that makes him watch Moriarty that bit more intently in the reflection as his curiosity about where this is going is stirred. But he remains still, allowing Moriarty to make the next move, not wishing to make the professor feel under pressure to take it in any particular direction. Another drop of water falls from the sponge gripped in his hand and plops into the bowl.

“Do not let me distract you, pet, from performing your ablutions,” Moriarty says softly, his lips close to Moran's ear, breath warm against his skin, seeming far hotter than the warmth of the bedroom.

“I don't mind being distracted, sir.” Moran can feel the warmth too of the professor's body against his back, the thin cotton of Moriarty's nightshirt preventing direct skin to skin contact, but forming only a flimsy barrier.

“Do you not?” Moriarty queries, smiling as he slides a hand across Moran's hip and wraps it around his prick.

The verbal response Moran gives is incoherent, as his mouth falls open in a gasp. The sponge drops from his hand into the basin, splashing a little water over their feet, but neither seems to notice or care.

“Professor...” If he intended to say more, these words dissipate into the ether before they can be given voice as Moran's head tips back to rest against Moriarty's shoulder. He closes his eyes, standing there leaning against Moriarty, lips still parted as the professor strokes him to hardness.

Moriarty watches Moran in the reflection all the while, paying rather less attention to his lover's hardening cock; far more to the expression of almost exquisite agony upon Moran's face; on the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows; on the tension of his muscles. Moran likely unwittingly reaches back, clasping the front of Moriarty's thigh, his fingers digging in sharply, but Moriarty does not mind this. If anything it only makes him feel more aware of the power he wields over Moran; how he can render the colonel incapable of conscious thought – always an appealing notion. Also fascinating is the manner in which Moran rests against him, eyes still closed. Were Moriarty to decide to play a cruel trick upon him and pull away from him Moran would fall without his support. But he holds the colonel close as he strokes him, steadfastly ignoring such thoughts.

“Sebastian, my sweet dove,” he says softly but clearly in the colonel's ear again. “I want to see you spend for me, chick.”

Moran has had countless past sexual encounters. He has climaxed with so many other people in the past, but this is different. This time his thoughts are consumed only by the professor. This time his almost soundless stuttering cry as he comes is for Moriarty's ears only. It is quick, rough, perhaps even _dirty_ , but something in Moran's expression moves even the professor. Such vulnerability, such infatuation, such _love_ , even, when the colonel finally opens his eyes again and looks at Moriarty's face once more in the rather foxed mirror.

Moran's chest still heaves a little from the effort, but as he straightens up slightly and his gaze becomes slightly more focused he laughs. “James,” he says. “I weren't expecting that.”

Moriarty smirks slightly and presses a light kiss to Moran's neck behind his ear. “I enjoy surprising you.”

Moran turns his head, glancing back at the professor. “You want me to do you?”

“It's not necessary.”

Moran twists around in the professor's loose embrace to face him properly. “I could use my mouth on you, if you'd prefer.”

“No, thank you.” Moriarty smiles at him with warmth, showing that the offer is appreciated even though he has no desire to make use of it at this time and that there is no malice in his rejection.

Knowing Moriarty as he does, understanding that the professor's needs are different to his own, Moran accepts this serenely. He slips his arms around the professor's upper body as Moriarty slides his around Moran's shoulders. Moriarty leans forward, pressing a brief, gentle kiss to Moran's lips. Moran closes his eyes again momentarily, savouring the few seconds before the professor draws back from him again.

“I'll have to wash myself again now,” he remarks, opening his eyes. He looks down at the towel on the floor, which now bears the stains of his release. “And give that towel a good wash and all.”

The professor moves over to sit upon the end of the bed, still watching Moran. “Finish washing yourself first.”

Moran's gaze snaps up to meet Moriarty's again. “You still want to watch?” He grins. “You're _ogling_ me?” He stoops to retrieve the sponge from the basin, squeezing out the excess water.

A small smile plays over the professor's lips. “Why should I not regard you? Take pride in the knowledge that such a fine, strong, utterly shameless creature as yourself belongs to me?”

Moran remains facing him as he returns to sponging himself down. Others might take offence at the professor's words, misconstruing them as Moriarty overstepping some boundary in claiming possession, but even though Moran bows his head, Moriarty can still make out the look of amusement upon his face.

“You forgot handsome,” Moran says, continuing to wipe himself down.

“My apologies.”

“And well-endowed in the trouser department.” Moran looks up at Moriarty again. There is something challenging in his look, something provocative, but mischievously so.

“I will confess that my experience of scrutinising the intimate parts of other men is far more limited than your own, but I don't doubt that yours is a most impressive example.”

“Too right.” Moran grins wickedly.

 “And it is all the more appealing to me for knowing that I have control over _it_ also.” Moriarty leans forward a little, holding Moran's gaze meaningfully but there is a still a warmth in his eyes that negates any potential menace in his words. “Do I not, my dove?”

Moran swallows and a flush creeps into his cheeks again. “Yes sir,” he admits. It is too soon after his climax for him to become hard immediately but even so the professor's possessiveness excites him. It never manifests in acts of cruelty but like this, in acts of playful dominance. Besides, it would hold true even if Moriarty had never been explicit about the matter. Moran recalls how in the early days of their acquaintance he was still dallying with other people but the more he came to develop feelings for the professor, the less inclined he felt to lie with casual partners; the more guilty he felt about doing so, as if it was an act of betrayal long before he ever knew whether Moriarty cared for him or not. The professor has owned him, body and soul, right from the start.

Moriarty straightens up again. His lips are pressed together in a thin smile. “When you have finished here,” he remarks as he watches Moran dry himself with a clean towel, “perhaps you might go and fetch some more water and put it on to warm for me.”

“What, you afraid of a bit of cold water?” Moran laughs.

 “Unlike you, I have no need for cold baths to douse my libido.”

 Moran's laughter fades; he seems troubled by something. He knows that he is being teased but what if there is something else, some genuine unease, at the root of that teasing? “Sir, if you...” He clears his throat. “If you ever feel intimidated by my desires, by their frequency I mean, I...”

“Intimidated?” Moriarty lifts an eyebrow at this. He holds out his hand to Moran, beckoning him closer.

“Made uncomfortable then.” Moran steps over towards him. “Professor, I...” Moran toys with a loose thread on Moriarty's nightshirt, looking at this rather than at the professor. “I know I'm, well, that I have far more sexual feelings than you.”

“Sebastian, if I was uncomfortable with your sexuality we would not even be having this conversation.” Moriarty grasps Moran's arm and pulls him over onto his lap. “If I believed you to be some kind of beast with uncontrollable lusts I would not have allowed you so close to me, nor decided to sate my own physical urges with you, and I certainly wouldn't agree to share a bed with you if I thought that you could not control yourself.” He rests his hands against Moran's hips, steadying and supporting him. “Your past promiscuity; your occasional suggestive remarks; your not infrequent nakedness do not trouble me – at least not so long as you choose to be naked only in the appropriate context.”

 Moran laughs at this. He rests his hands upon Moriarty's shoulders, loosely embracing his neck. “Damn, so I can't wander about the streets of London in my birthday suit then?”

 “I'm afraid not.”

 Moran chuckles again but after a moment the humour on both of their faces dissipates as they look into each other's eyes. A silence falls over them, heavy and somehow profound but not at all awkward. Moran leans forward, tilting his head slightly so that his forehead rests gently against Moriarty's and he closes his eyes again just as he did when they kissed.

 This is all so different to anything he has had before, not just in regards to the sex but in the sense of stability and security that being around the professor brings. Of course the sex _is_ different – Moriarty is far from lacking in imagination when it comes to their intimate games, but his comparative sexual inexperience; his lack of direct sexual attraction even for Moran; his far lower sex drive, accompanied simply perhaps by his studious nature, show through. Some of the sense of passionate heated lust may be missing and much of their communication must be far more explicit than Moran was used to with past partners. Where with them he might rely on unconscious gestures, the subtlest signals given off unwittingly, with the professor there is a greater need to ask, whether verbally or not, and to await a response before he proceeds. But Moran does not yearn for what he had with others in the past. What he has with the professor is captivating in a whole new way, one which he had never believed previously he could enjoy. His past encounters were pleasant distractions and generally immensely enjoyable at the time, but would he now wish to trade this seemingly more sedate lifestyle with the professor for a life where he might take a different sexual partner each night? No. There are passions that burn so bright and hot that they sear and burn the participants, or else they quickly consume themselves, burning themselves out rapidly. And then there are passions that flicker brightly still, but that smoulder more steadily, providing warmth for a much great length of time, perhaps even in perpetuity.

 Moran had been moved about a fair amount in his childhood, before he was old enough to have any say in where he went, what with his father's career and then being packed off to that hellhole called Eton, a place he frequently ran away from. But even as an adult he had no real home. Other British or Irish men abroad in India and in Afghanistan had somewhere back in the British Isles they still regarded as home, if not of their own then belonging to their family, even if they hadn't set eyes on it for years at a time. But Moran had nothing like that, knowing that Augustus would have him chased off his land with shotguns and flaming torches if he tried to set foot upon it; knowing too that hell would freeze over before he ever chose to do so anyway. But India was never home to him either, and as viciously as he might defend the men of his regiment, they were not family. To Sebastian, his family had died when his mother was put in her grave; Augustus and the no doubt vast brood of bastard half-siblings the old bully had sired were not his family.

 Yet here he is in a room, in a house, that is not their usual one; one lacking many of the amenities and comforts he has grown used to since moving into the professor's London residence, but with the professor beside him this feels as much like home as the place in Conduit Street.

 For the professor too this is new and still intriguing. Moriarty has a glib tongue and is easily capable of charming people when he wishes, gaining himself many admirers, but he had never made close friends. This did not concern him much – he preferred his own company anyway. The notion of taking on a wife never crossed his mind but then occasionally, as steadily his acquaintances from school or college began to get married off, he thought to wonder if perhaps he were one of those men who preferred male companionship to female. As a man untroubled by religious feeling and largely unhindered (at least morally, if not necessarily always practically) by the laws of the land, Moriarty was not burdened by any feelings of guilt or terror over the possibility that he might be, so to speak, an _invert_. But his few sexual experiments with male acquaintances were awkward, uncomfortable and largely abortive. The idea of dominating a partner - of reducing them to a state of helplessness and desperation - certainly appealed; the idea of himself being reduced to such a state in front of another person did not however, and he found certain aspects of sexual congress profoundly unappealing also. His inexperience, even his lack of sexual attraction, did not matter so much – skills can be learnt even if they do not come naturally, and the unpleasant physical mess of sex could be dealt with one way or another. But it was far more difficult to get past his hatred of appearing so vulnerable in front of another person, until Moran came into his life; until Moriarty realised that the colonel was truly devoted to him; that he would sooner cut off his own hand than betray the professor or cause him distress. Furthermore, also that Moran possessed a latent desire to be dominated; to be subjugated sexually in a manner that enabled him to fit beautifully with Moriarty. Their little games allow the professor to sate his sexual urges when they occur but on those occasions where he does not wish to engage in direct sexual contact or reach a climax himself, they still provide him with the cerebral pleasure of dominating Moran, whilst also ensuring that the more virile colonel is still thoroughly satisfied even on those occasions where Moriarty does not wish to directly couple with him. It seems to be a nearly perfect arrangement.

 Yet Moriarty knows too that this is about far more than sex; that Moran is not akin to some harlot, only there to serve his sexual needs. He need not have kept Moran as his close and near-constant companion had this only been about sating his sexual urges. Were this only about sex also he need never have concerned himself too much with Moran's overall happiness.

 “Moran, my dove,” he murmurs, and Moran opens his eyes again. “Come back to bed.”

 “Sir?” Moran hesitates a moment, not reluctant, merely slightly perplexed by this change of direction.

 “And if you might find the vial of oil before you do so.” Moriarty smiles.

 “What about getting washed? Breakfast?”

 “That can wait, unless you are absolutely desperate to eat?”

 “No sir, I just... thought you didn't want it now.”

 “I am allowed to change my mind.”

 “Of course.” Moran grins and slips from Moriarty's lap at once. He goes to rummage through the toiletries bag, seeking out the stoppered vial of oil concealed in a side pocket and neatly wrapped in cloth to protect the glass.

 Moriarty moves back onto the bed and draws Moran over to him when he returns. The colonel places the oil aside so he won't drop it as Moriarty turns him over, putting him onto his back.

 “My colonel.” Moriarty presses him back into the sheets, straddling him as he leans over to kiss Moran's mouth. “My Moran.” Beneath him Moran, possessed of a virility many men could only dream of, is already tentatively growing hard again. “Always so eager for me,” Moriarty remarks with a smile.

 “Professor.” Moran reaches up to cup Moriarty's face between his hands as they kiss, before Moriarty turns his face away, dropping down to place kisses against Moran's neck.

 There is something possessive in the professor's manner, as the colonel's head tips back, baring his throat to his lover. Moriarty presses a lingering kiss under his jaw, close to where Moran's pulse throbs in his throat, as if to remind him again of his vulnerability; of Moriarty's mastery over him.

 In response Moran arches up against him and groans. He trails his hands down the professor's back, over his nightshirt, down his sides, before slipping one hand between their bodies. His eyes are closed as he wraps his strong fingers around the professor's prick.

 “Moran,” Moriarty murmurs softly, and Moran opens his eyes, looking up at him. The professor holds the glass bottle.

 Comprehending him without need for further explanation, Moran holds up his hand to allow Moriarty to tip a little of the oil into his palm. He uses this to slick the professor's length. Despite his own desperation Moran strokes Moriarty's prick with skill and care, helping him into a state of greater physical arousal. So skilful is his handling the touch soon verges on too much, and Moriarty lets out a shaky breath as he clasps Moran's wrist, stilling his movement. He smiles though, showing that he wishes not for a cease to their activities, only to change the direction a little now.

 “My Sebastian,” he says, and slips his hand beneath Moran, sliding his greased fingers up into him.

 “Fuck.” Moran cannot keep the curse word from spilling out at this intrusion. His hips buck up and his now fully hard prick twitches as Moriarty spreads the oil up inside him. “Professor, please!” His blue eyes look so dark when he is so aroused, Moriarty notes; as the usually cool, composed colonel loses control of himself all over again.

 Moriarty's hands are beneath Moran's thighs now, drawing Moran's legs up, spreading them, but only to guide him. Moran has surrendered to him and to his own desires already; Moriarty's directions are purely symbolic - gestures of ownership, of domination, but also of profound affection. The colonel draws his legs up further, wrapping them around Moriarty's sides, half lifting his lower body off the bed himself and half lifted by the professor so that he is in the perfect position. Moriarty slides into him easily, initially using one hand to guide his cock inside but this soon becomes needless. Moran opens to him willingly, easily taking the professor's thick length deep inside him, entirely giving his body up for his lover's pleasure.

 Moriarty embraces him tightly and buries his face in the hollow of Moran's neck as he begins to thrust. He can feel Moran's panting breath as he takes him rather roughly but not without care. This roughness comes only from his own urgent desire for release.

 Moran's left hand clutches at the bedsheets but his right hand fists in Moriarty's nightshirt as if he is desperately clinging on for dear life. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he realises somewhere deep down how far and how hard he has fallen for the professor and perhaps that thought still scares a man so used to a more solitary lifestyle; one so used to being betrayed and ill-used too.

 “James,” he murmurs between gasps, his warm breath close to Moriarty's ear. “James, I...”

 The professor still presses his face against Moran's neck, turning it slightly towards Moran's shoulder. It is much easier to bear like this - when they are so intimately joined together; when they are locked tightly together, losing themselves to each other, as if they are trying to each crawl inside the other's skin, so closely are they connected - when he does not have to look into Moran's eyes and see the unadulterated loyalty and love there. That is something that deep down even the self-assured professor is not entirely sure he deserves.

 He thrusts several more time into that delicious tight warmth, so very close to his release, straining to reach the end, the pinnacle of that physical pleasure. Closer, closer still, and then, _there_. He goes still and lets out a muffled cry against Moran's shoulder as he spends, feeling his lover's body tense under him, _around_ him, as he spills inside Moran. A moment or two later, before Moriarty quite has time to begin to gather his unravelled thoughts together, Moran is coming too, bucking up against Moriarty as his release pulses warm and wet between their bodies, and letting out that customary almost breathless cry of, _“James!”_

 They are both panting and shaky with the exertion, their movements still hesitant and clumsy. Moran twists his face sideways as he reaches up with a quivering hand. He traces his fingers along Moriarty's spine through the now sweat-dampened fabric of his nightshirt, up his back, moving up towards his face. Moriarty looks at him as Moran brushes his thumb over the professor's lips, before replacing the thumb with his own lips. Both close their eyes during the long, lingering kiss. Both can still feel the other trembling.

 It is Moriarty who breaks the kiss at last, as is usually the case, but it has lasted long enough for Moran to feel appreciated, even cherished, and not that the professor's withdrawal is some manner of rejection. Moriarty rolls onto his back to lie beside Moran, putting one hand behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. He appears to be about to say something then seemingly changes his mind, pressing his lips together without making a sound. Perhaps he does not trust himself to speak now, not when his guard is down.

 “Professor?” Moran turns onto his side to face Moriarty. “You all right?”

 “Mm.” Moriarty glances at him and smiles. “Perfectly well.”

 Moran smiles too as he reaches across to run his hand down the professor's stomach, sliding it over to cup his hipbone. “We made a bit of a mess of your nightshirt,” he remarks with a grin.

 “Indeed.” Moriarty continues to look up at the ceiling, seemingly unconcerned by this.

 “If you take it off I'll wash it for you in a bit.”

 “All right.” Moriarty sits up and pulls the soiled shirt up over his head, balling it up and handing it over to Moran with another small smile of gratitude. He is grateful for far more than merely the offer to wash it though. He is grateful for Moran declining to make some manner of comment pointing out that it would be far more practical simply to remove the nightshirt before the commencement of the sex. But Moran, if not directly, then in some more abstract way, understands Moriarty's seemingly rather strange little habits. He may not fully comprehend how terrified Moriarty is of losing his control, or that retaining some item of clothing during sex helps give him some illusion of maintaining that control, but he seems to sense that it helps. “Moran,” Moriarty says, just as Moran is about to stand up. He reaches, sliding his hand around the back of Moran's head, drawing him closer for a moment to press a soft kiss to his forehead. He says nothing more but when Moran draws back from him and turns away to take up the sponge from the basin of water again, Moriarty notes that he is smiling.

 “When you've finished that, if you could put that water to warm for me so I might have my wash also,” Moriarty says, watching Moran swiftly washing himself down again.

 “Of course.” Moran dries himself off quickly before pulling on shirt and trousers. “I'll get us some breakfast too, hmm?”

 “That would be nice.” Moriarty lies down again, arms folded behind his head, resting it upon his interlaced fingers. Although he is completely naked now, like this he is unconcerned about his own nudity. This is no longer about sex and he knows that he is safe here with Moran. “Bacon and eggs?”

 “Yes sir.”

 “I am rather famished now.”

 “There's nothing like tuppin' to give you an appetite,” Moran remarks as he tucks his shirt neatly in his trousers and secures his braces into place.

 “Those are words of wisdom from Colonel Moran?” Moriarty laughs. “We are not sheep, Sebastian.”

 Moran laughs too. “Course not.”

 Indeed not, Moriarty thinks, regarding his lover. Most humans, he feels, are little better than sheep, mindlessly following the flock, allowing themselves to be herded and driven; even meekly allowing themselves to be led to slaughter sometimes without questioning this until it is far too late. But Moran seemed different – a man not wholly without morals but someone capable of thinking outside of the restrictive laws and social norms. Even though he craves some manner of structure and discipline and control, he was ill-suited for army life. He excelled at fighting and was a brilliant marksman; he was courageous and his loyalty to his own men was beyond reproach, but he railed against the rigidity of the army life and his respect for and loyalty towards the British empire was noticeably lacking. It was hardly surprising then that the colonel had gained something of a reputation as being a mercenary man, prepared to fight for whoever offered him the most money, even if that was not truly the case at all. In truth Moran did not wish to sell himself to the highest bidder, he only wanted a master he felt was worthy of his respect and loyalty.

 Moran leaves the room, carrying the basin and with the nightshirt and towels slung over his shoulder. He is, Moriarty has noticed, still barefoot. Perhaps he simply likes the feel of the cool stones of the floor beneath his feet or perhaps it is an indication that he feels able to relax here, away from the bustle of London.

 Shortly from the direction of the cottage's small kitchen there comes the sound of clanging pots and pans, followed by the enticing smell of bacon cooking. Moriarty's stomach grumbles in response.

 “Breakfast'll be served in approximately five minutes, sir,” Moran informs Moriarty upon bringing the pail of warmed water and a clean, dry towel in for him.

 “Thank you, Moran.” Moriarty finally decides it is prudent to remove himself from the bed. Aside from his upcoming breakfast, he finds it hard to tolerate the messier results of sex for more than a few minutes. He gets up and sets about washing and dressing himself, leaving Moran to play cook and maid. He dresses casually – there is no point in attiring himself in finery merely to eat breakfast in a country cottage – and dons only undergarments, a shirt without its collar, and trousers, leaving the more formal trappings aside, although he does put on some shoes before venturing from the bedroom. He would prefer not to risk stepping on something unexpected with bare feet.

 The cottage is not a large one and there is no separate dining room, only a stout but much scarred wooden table with mismatched chairs in the kitchen. Moran is serving up the eggs as Moriarty enters the kitchen, sliding them from the hot pan onto the plates, being careful not to break the yolks. A small smile crosses his face as Moriarty walks in, though he does not look up from putting out the food.

 “Nearly ready, sir.” He turns away to set the pan aside.

 Moran's hair, though kept short enough for respectability's sake, is just long enough for it to fall partly over his forehead when it is not oiled back. Moriarty likes how it looks like this and even how Moran appears when he is dressed so relatively casually. Moran is often such a restless creature, possessed of endless patience when he has a particular goal in mind or he feels in control of the situation but he copes poorly with boredom or when he feels unable to influence an outcome. The professor suspects that the colonel must have been particularly infuriating before a battle, waiting around for something to happen and not truly knowing what the outcome might be. Often he reminds Moriarty of nothing so much as the tiger he once saw in some tawdry travelling circus, where the poor beast constantly paced back and forth within the confines of its cage. It is rare then to see Moran looking so relaxed and contented when they have no particular plans in mind for the day.

 “Thank you, Moran,” Moriarty says as he sits down just as Moran sets his plate of food in front of him. He catches the colonel's hand just before he can turn to collect his own plate, holding it briefly, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles before relinquishing it. “I rather feel that domesticity suits you.”

 Moran chuckles as he fetches his plate and takes the seat opposite the professor. The table is not a large one and as he draws his chair in, his knees almost touch Moriarty's under the table.

 “Perhaps you have missed your calling,” Moriarty remarks.

 “What, so I should have become an 'ousekeeper instead of a soldier?” Moran grins and picks up his knife and fork. He begins to methodically cut up his bacon.

 “No, but... perhaps a chef.”

 Moran laughs again. “Like them French dandies in the fancy restaurants? No thank you.” He puts a piece of bacon into his mouth and chews it slowly. “Soldiering's all I'm good for,” he says after swallowing it. “I'm not like you, I weren't clever enough for anything else.”

 “We both know that isn't true,” Moriarty says softly.

 Moran glances up from his eggs. “Ain't it?” There is a touch of asperity in his tone, though Moriarty gets the sense that this is directed not outwards but inwards.

 “My dove, even to me alone you are far more than merely my loyal soldier. You have been my chief of staff, my valet, my secretary.”

 “Your hired killer.” Moran drops his gaze and smiles thinly.

 “Bodyguard.”

 “Bed-warmer.” Moran mops up some of his egg yolk with a thick slice of bread, deliberately not looking up as he says this. Amusement glimmers in his eyes.

 “Companion,” Moriarty says, and Moran lifts his eyes again to meet the professor's gaze for a moment.

 Seeing only warmth in Moriarty's expression, Moran lowers his gaze again. The faintest blush seems to suffuse his cheeks.

 “Do you truly think you mean so little to me?” the professor enquires. “You mean more to me than anyone else,” he says, because rendering Moran vulnerable is not the only thing that amuses him. Seeing Moran smile – _really_ smile, in a way that touches his eyes and is not merely some wry quirk of his mouth – or flush with slightly embarrassed but ill-concealed delight when he is praised or treated with kindness also gives the professor great pleasure. He knows that few people have been able to draw such reactions out of the colonel before, probably because few have even tried.

 Moran still holds the egg-smeared piece of bread in one hand, having seemingly forgotten about this before he finished lifting it to his mouth. “Sir...” He is not sure what he is supposed to say in response to this, what response could be fitting without sounding too sentimental. The professor is far more tolerant, even accepting, of the softer emotions, than anyone else who knows him might expect, but he has his limits. Moran would never wish to say or do something to make Moriarty regret his decision to participate in a more-or-less romantic relationship with him.

 “Eat your breakfast, Sebastian,” Moriarty instructs and continues tucking into his eggs and bacon, effectively removing any need for Moran to fumble around for something to say. But his gentle smile as he speaks indicates that he is silencing Moran not out of unkindness but because words are unnecessary. Moran has demonstrated his regard for Moriarty time and time again.

 Silence settles over them again, punctuated only by the scrape of cutlery on the plate as Moriarty cuts up his egg, the tick of the clock in the hall and the sounds of birdsong from outside. But this is a silence that is as comfortable as a warm blanket on a cold night, a silence that rests easily between two men who know and understand each other well enough by now to feel no urge to try to cram it with meaningless chatter.

 With the faintest hint of a smile on his face, Moran returns to eating. 


End file.
